


blur the lines

by corazondemielle



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Han Jisung | Han is a Good Friend, Han Jisung | Han is a Little Shit, Lee Minho sees ghosts, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, University Student Lee Minho | Lee Know, University Student Yang Jeongin | I.N, Witch Han Jisung | Han, Yang Jeongin sees ghosts, Yang Jeongin | I.N-centric, like a lot of them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corazondemielle/pseuds/corazondemielle
Summary: Jeongin often feels his life is spiraling out of control. Between his demanding art degree, his whirlwind of a neighbor who also happens to be a witch, and the annoying spirits who demand favors from him, things are maybe a little out of the ordinary. However, he’s working through it, trying to get rid of this curse that weighs on him, mending old scars, and steadily trying to keep his scholarship, all of it his own kind of usual.That is until stubborn and sweet Lee Minho decided to paint himself into his life, smearing all the lines that separated Jeongin from the rest of the world.
Relationships: Lee Minho | Lee Know/Yang Jeongin | I.N
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14
Collections: AGIBBANG FEST





	blur the lines

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written for [AGIBBANG FEST](https://twitter.com/AGIBBANGFEST), for **prompt #0100.** To my prompter, I had so much fun writing this and the rest of the parts, so I genuinely hope you like it!

Jeongin istired.

It’s Tuesday afternoon, and Jeongin is _so, so_ tired. He’s behind on two deadlines due at the end of the month and he knows his development teacher is certainly gonna give him an earful for skipping class twice this week; he forgot to pay a library fee and he got fined, and there are at least four broken cups in his apartment.

Granted, he’s not the one at fault here. He’s been running around town trying to avoid rampant spirits that have been incessantly bugging him for weeks. It doesn’t matter if he’s awake or trying to sleep or pay attention in class or just do the dishes at his apartment. He’s fed up and in general, things are not going very well. And if he doesn’t make any progress on his self-portrait assignment that will be subjected to critique during his early class tomorrow, he’ll be done for. 

That’s how he ends up dragging himself across the campus, to get to the studio he has rented a slot in, determined to get through the end of this week. It’s drizzling when he unlocks the door and Jeongin sets up this canvas, mirrors, paint and long easels around him, as he listens to the increasing downpour outside. He thinks that maybe he can do this. He decides against music and under the faint droplets, Jeongin sets his mind to focus on his work. It’s calm, and it’s the silence that envelops him and melts the tension from his muscles as if he’s in a trance. He is the only other person in here, so he allows himself to be messy with his belongings, his bag full of obscure pins and doodles left forgotten on a chair, and his Moleskine sketchbook thrown on another. The sooner he gets done with this painting, the sooner he can go home and start on other homework, and the sooner he can talk to Jisung about his latest library findings. 

It’s a silly little thought, one that he feels like entertaining right now: going home earlier than usual, messing around with his neighbor while they try to finish their own assignments. His mind wanders somewhere happy while paints until—

“ _Found you._ ”

Jeongin’s brush strokes come to a halt with a rough hand movement, leaving an unwanted stripe on his canvas. All of a sudden, the trees outside the studio seem to cast dark shadows on him and his painting, and it starts raining heavier than before. It’s the beginning of December and the heating system seems to be working fine but Jeongin feels like the temperature suddenly dropped several degrees, going by the chills running up and down his body, and the cold fear settles on the pit of his stomach. The sensation is unwelcomed, but it is by no means unfamiliar; there are always ghosts in university grounds and Jeongin takes pride in having become good at avoiding them, yet he finds himself thrown off guard, almost as if he has been punched in the gut, breathless and dizzy. 

“ _I know you can see me._ ” the spirit tells him sardonically as if they have all the time in the world. 

He doesn’t move an inch to look in the direction of the voice, but he doesn’t have to, because he recognizes it; it’s one of the ghosts that has been plaguing him since they caught Jeongin staring at them, some nights ago. He had just wanted some strawberry milk from the closest convenience store, and instead ended up with a troublesome, seemingly newly ghost tailing him home and eventually, everywhere they could while lucid enough to remember who he is, loitering around the park next to his apartment building.

Jeongin knows better than to entertain them; he takes his time putting down the brush he had been using, in the cup full of paint water, and he wipes the remaining pigment from his hands on the rag that hangs from the easel in front of him.

“ _I really will leave you alone if you help me this once._ ” Jeongin winces at the static tone that buzzes in his direction but busies himself cleaning his brushes, not acknowledging the awful, faint voice that drips with empty threats. After all, there’s not much they can do with whatever consciousness they have left.

He is no fool; humans are greedy, dead or alive, Jeongin learned from the moment this curse that makes him _see_ much more, fell on him. _If you help me this once_ , will soon become _do me another favor_. He thinks back on every spirit encounter he's had since he was a kid, good, bad and terrible and he nods to himself as he examines the painting in front of him. Only people who die with regrets remain as ghosts on this plane and more often than not, that is all they are; a shell of their past self left with unfinished business that they can’t attend to. Jeongin is also far wiser than the idealistic child he once was. Call him selfish, like the people in his life who had wanted to take advantage of his “gift” long ago, but he believes that whoever is left behind to carry the mourning of the death, will not heal if the dead seek them out. Besides, if he went around solving problems that aren’t his, he would find no rest. 

From experience, he _knows_ it’s easier this way. He can just endure the instinctual fear and the annoyance until the poor soul forgets about whatever it was that brought them to him. 

Jeongin decides to occupy his mind. He lets his now clammy fingers wander over the dry parts of the canvas. There was no set theme for this assignment and the requirements didn’t go beyond it having to be a self-portrait and he would have usually gone with a high contrast piece, using a limited palette. But that night, when he had gotten home exhausted and fallen asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, he had dreamed of something different to the usual grim visions; when his teacher had asked Jeongin about his sketches during the next class, probably sensing the shift in direction from his usual darker and desaturated and sharp works, he had shrugged and told her he just had a good omen. Just like that, this depiction has turned into his boldest yet, even his peers noticing and taking peeks during class, despite not talking to him at all outside them.

There, he lays in a field of green, lines engulfing him in vibrant greens and yellows, specks of gold and red and pink dotting the canvas in what will later become flowers of all kinds; a lovely garden he thinks can only exist in his dreams. It’s a vibrant, lively scenery and it screams _look at me, I am alive, as is this field of flowers._ The center of the painting is a rough contrast to the rest of the piece, as it shows him bust-up, one of his hands resting on his chest and the other hidden at his side between flowers. His hair looks as it does right now, a messy mass of dark that, under certain lighting, turns blue, and his eyes are closed, lids decorated with golden flecks, in what looks like glitter. The colors on his face are still desaturated amongst impressionism-like strokes, as he had just started painting warmer colors on his skin, but now there is red paint from where his mouth is, to his left ear, like a slash to his face. The angry red line hides half of what is supposed to be a shy smile, a promise painted on canvas, to mend old scars and to get rid of this curse that makes his life more difficult than it should be for an orphan.

Not far from him, the ghost keeps insisting, voice growing erratically shaky, still sounding like an old radio. Jeongin turns to face one of the mirrors when he feels a light breeze at his side and that’s when it happens: the phantom puts one of their icy hands on his shoulder and they look straight to him in the reflection, in a way Jeongin can’t pretend to not see. The look this ghost sends his way is so intense Jeongin has to close his eyes or he feels like he may pass out. It’s almost as if their eyes are drilling a hole on Jeongin’s neck and it makes all his hair stand on end from what feels like the crushing pressure of this soul’s intent. When Jeongin refuses to open his eyes, the spirit squeezes his shoulder tightly, and Jeongin, driven by the primal terror, retracts his hands from the canvas and opens his eyes slowly. 

What he sees makes him choked up, a blurry vision of what this person was before their death; their gaze is cloudy and unfocused, yet full of determination; in the light of the afternoon their cheeks look so rosy, almost making them look alive, and their blonde hair shines brightly, defying the fact they no longer exist in the same plane as Jeongin. Before Jeongin has the chance to try and breathe again, unsure if he will be able to, the stray soul hums, pleased after catching his attention, and retracts their frosty hand as if it burns. 

It doesn’t.

Jeongin clutches his chest, his right hand flying to his neck, to feel his pulse, an old habit that he hasn’t been able to get rid of. He feels the blood thrumming loudly under his index and middle finger and he catches his breath, relieved. He stares at the window, in the opposite direction he feels the essence of the ghost and he concentrates on the dark clouds outside, swirling in a mix of dark grey and purple and as the sun begins to set. After a bit of thinking about the colors, he thinks it would make a pretty painting, something he could turn in for a future assignment. After what feels like hours that it takes to compose himself. Jeongin sighs and turns, defeated, to stare at the ghost. 

This time, out of shock or the thrill of being acknowledged for the first time in who knows how long, their image flickers for a split second, and this sight makes bile rise up Jeongin’s throat. In front of him, he no longer sees the same kid with the bright smile and golden locks; instead, their blonde hair is completely covered in blood and their neck is contorted in a way that seems impossible for the human body. Jeongin feels his throat get dry but he forces himself to swallow the ugly feeling down so he can stand up and pick up his supplies, with shaky hands. His legs too, feel like the lemon-flavored jelly that he steals from Jisung’s fridge when he visits. Jeongin rubs the left sleeve of his hoodie, where the protection charm Jisung embroidered last week laughs at him. 

It seems the spirit soon realizes what he’s doing, this not being the first time he escapes from them.

“ _Just help me out!_ ”, they scream and Jeongin closes his eyes, nose scrunching as a numbing pain sets on his neck. _“I have all the time in the world! I will go wherever you go!”_

He tries to not face them as he takes out the glasses and earphones from his bag, and carefully puts both of them on. Soon, their image fades slowly and their screams grow silent until he can no longer look or hear their presence, yet he knows they are right there, demanding him to do something he doesn’t want to do. He can still sense them as clearly as he can sense the rain outside.

“Good luck with that.” He says, turning around, careful to not stain his clothes with the fresh acrylic as he heads towards the door, mildly protected by the charms that are now on him, heavy on top of his nose and his ears.

The way Jeongin sees it, he is not alive, nor he is dead. In moments like this, when unfortunate souls beg him to take them to their resting places, or when alive humans ask for favors from him, when they ask him to walk the thin, blurry lines between realms, he finds that he truly doesn’t belong here or beyond. He exists quietly in a boundary, a pocket of life where death exists; a bubble surrounded by death where everything else is alive. There is warm blood running through his veins but his soul and all his senses are that of someone who went too far and was pulled back to life in what he likes to call a daring miracle.

He decides to call it quits for the day and just go to Jisung and try to sleep, a feat he only can do when someone else is looking over him; screw this assignment, he’s too shaken to be able to work properly for now. His rapid steps echo through the halls and as soon as he’s out of the building, Jeongin wills the ugly, slimy feeling down, and fumbles with his phone to dial Jisung. The pressure on the back of his neck is ever-present and he knows it’s very likely that he’s being followed by the ghost from before. Jeongin tries to ground himself as the phone rings one, two, three times, although it sounds far and foreign. Some more seconds go by before a raspy voice answers. 

_“Hello?”_

“I’m gonna end you next time I see you.” Jeongin’s chastises immediately as he feels the rain seep his clothes and soak his skin.

_“Jeongin?”_

“Who else would call you, _stinky_?” Jeongin’s rubs his temples. “Your seals are shit!” 

His voice betrays him, but he hopes Jisung focuses on the snarky remarks so he won't pay too much attention to the way Jeongin’s words tremble. The rain intensifies as he walks towards the bus stop and all he can think about is how cold he still feels.

_“You little—”_ Jisung stops himself midway, apparently having caught up. _“Are you okay? Did something happen?”_

Jeongin feels his chest bubble with unease, still thinking about the bloody eyes and rosy cheeks and blond hair and—

_“Innie? Are you okay? Did my seals wear off?”_

Jeongin sighs. He feels so tired.

“Yeah, I think they are all worn, _hyung_. One of them got to touch me today and—” he takes a deep breath. He needs to stir the conversation from this our he feels his heart may burst. “And I know this isn’t technically your fault, and that instead, we should blame your lack of skill—”

_“Hey!”_ Jisung protests again. “ _You know I am not qualified for any of this! I can only do so much you know, Innie!_ ”

“I know, I know!” Jeongin retorts back as he jogs.

They banter playfully and Jisung eases him from the panic, in a way only he knows, perfected by the practiced form only years of friendship have made possible. By the time Jeongin approaches the bus stop, his hoodie is soaked wet but at least his painting won’t be ruined by the rainwater, he thinks as he shakes off as much of it off of the canvas. His hand compulsively keeps going to his neck and it’s only when he’s sat down that the adrenaline starts receding, letting him feel the presence of someone who’s not dead, sitting at the bench. He turns to give his greetings to whoever will be unlucky to breathe the same air as the weird Fine Arts kids for the next 15 minutes, but he immediately regrets it, almost wincing as he inevitably makes eye contact with the only other person waiting under the little cover the stop provides.

If he was to reconsider, maybe the last thing Jeongin needs right now is to meet Lee Minho.

Not only because Minho is the most talented student in his department, his senior at that, but also because he’s easily the most beautiful person Jeongin has ever met, and Jeongin has met a _lot_ of them. Once more, needles prickle at his neck and now the sound of the rain is entirely too loud, and Jeongin can’t articulate anything past the usual pleasantries he would give anyone else because Lee Minho is staring right at him, curiousness dancing in his stare. The older one offers Jeongin a genuine smile and Jeongin gives a tiny awkward laugh in response because he doesn’t know what to do beyond that. 

Yang Jeongin isn’t really the friendliest student out there and Jisung often describes his default expression as a _resting bitch face_ , and apart from that, he’s the sophomore scholarship student, which kind of makes others want to not approach him unless extremely necessary; he also spends an awful amount of time reading occult books at the library and he usually wears paint-stained clothes or hats that obscure his face, so it’s certainly no wonder people tend to stay away from him, either unconsciously, maybe due to the weird aura he exudes, or perhaps a result of years and years of living the way he does. 

Despite all that, right here, right now, Minho is looking at him with no wariness in his eyes and if maybe Jeongin’s heart skips a beat, it’s no one else’s business other than his. Jeongin recalls meeting him during his freshman year

Jeongin squirms on his edge of the bench, far from Minho and from the imaginary line he mentally traces whenever he comes in contact with someone. He fiddles with his phone for a second while trying to think of something, anything that he could maybe say right now, to save face in front of potentially the only person he would ever want to impress. Although, he doesn’t have to, because Minho is who speaks up first.

“What are you working on?” he asks, leaning forward, trying to peek at Jeongin’s canvas. For a moment, Jeongin feels self-conscious, not only because Jeongin can’t fathom Minho would be interested in his work, but also because this is very much in need of work and time.

“Ah, it’s a self-portrait for class.” He replies and he tilts the canvas towards Minho. “I got startled and ruined it so I’ll have to work more on it later.”

Minho wastes no time moving closer, maybe the closer Jeongin has had anyone apart from Jisung, in what feels like weeks. The older goes on a detailed critique of his piece, and really, Jeongin isn’t too surprised at that, seeing that he _is_ an art student just like him. Jeongin also finds that he doesn’t actually mind the way Minho’s eyes shine as he goes over his lines and compliments his colors and something in him swells with pride.

“The edges and the shapes are so nice.” Minho smiles at Jeongin and perhaps, if he wasn’t freezing, his cheeks would warm over the praise. “You could just pretend the line was always meant to be there, integrate it? You don’t have to listen to me, but I do think overall it’s a good piece”. 

Jeongin gives a quiet thanks in response, as watches the droplets of water fall from his face and hair onto his canvas and focuses on the advice Minho has given him. He bites his lip and falls deep in thought, now that the terror has completely melted from his bones. There is no harm in trying, after all. What is art if not an eternal work in progress? 

His phone starts buzzing not long after, and Jeongin almost drops everything he’s holding, and he yelps, embarrassingly. At his side, Minho giggles, and Jeongin is sure his ears have gone red, despite the terrible cold that hugs him. He taps his glasses to get rid of the droplets that blur his vision and he squints at the messages Jisung has sent him, a mix of annoying _don’t ignore my texts_ , and _get here quick, I found something_ ; which makes Jeongin nervous, because that last one is usually extremely disappointing or borderline dangerous.

“Han Jisung, one of these days…” he mutters, mortified, and gritting his teeth, but he gives in as he sends out a quick _you’ll pay for the food._ He has barely managed to put his phone back in his pocket before he hears Minho again.

“Jeongin-ah, are you friends, with Hanji?” 

Minho catches Jeongin off guard with the question and Jeongin looks up to find Minho looking at him, soft brown eyes patiently awaiting an answer. His hair is a shade of brown that reminds Jeongin of the coffee he drinks every day on routine, and maybe of deep forests from visions, memories that don’t belong to him. There is something akin to interest in his gaze now as well, and under the heavy rain, Minho’s cat-like features suddenly make Jeongin feel like he is a tiny mouse out in the open. Jeongin also thinks that it would be interesting to paint his features, sharp and immaculate, but he stops himself from finishing the thought in favor of answering the question (and the well-being of his heart).

“I... I am, I think?”, he stutters, despite knowing he has been friends with Jisung for over half his life.

Minho snickers. “I don’t know what he did but it was probably his fault.”

Jeongin relaxes visibly when he hears Minho’s laugh and he chuckles too, and even though he’s soaked wet and he’s still cold, the atmosphere around him suddenly feels light and warm.

They talk a bit more, about their major and about Jisung, who happens to have shared a philosophy class with Minho some time ago. Some more small talk later, Minho is asking for his number, _This is an invitation to my next exhibition_ , he tells him and Jeongin stares in awe as he is shown pictures of some pieces from the same exhibition. The older one’s smile never leaves his face, and his eyes turn to crescents as he moves closer and closer to Jeongin on the bench. Coincidentally, Jeongin’s eyes turn into moons the more he hears Minho talk, as he fills in the blanks when Jeongin doesn’t know what to say anymore, and it’s comfortable, Jeongin learns quickly. Minho doesn’t push and pull as he sees fit, the way other people do, his voice is sweet and velvety like honey and he listens intently when Jeongin has something to say. If he didn’t know better, he would think he’s starting to harbor a _really_ big crush.

Jeongin shivers, fingers cold and trembling as he grips his phone, where the clock reads 5:22 p.m., as he wonders where his bus is. Almost on cue, he sees the lights of the bus in the distance and he stands up, ready to leave. Minho stands up too and he gestures Jeongin so he’ll enter first, to which Jeongin responds by swiping his card on the bus reader and getting on. He sees the oldest do the same, as he takes a seat at the back, to not bother anyone, soaked as he is, and then he sees Minho approaching him, only to take a seat next to him. 

It’s soon that they fall into a comfortable silence, one that doesn’t make Jeongin scramble for words to say. They spend a good chunk of the ride in perfect quiet until Minho takes notice of how Jeongin’s fingers are starting to turn blue. The next second he’s taking out a jacket from his bag and fussing over him. 

“I need to ask you a question and then ?” Minho says carefully as he hands him the cozy pink coat. “I hope you won’t find it too weird since you’re Jisung’s friend.”

That makes Jeongin quirk an eyebrow and he tips his head to the side, confused. The bus takes a turn and Jeongin’s body sways with the movement. He tries to say no to the jacket but Minho shoves it in his hands, so Jeongin takes his hoodie off and discards the heavy cloth unceremoniously into his bag. As he’s putting the fuzzy, warm coat on, he turns to Minho,

“Uh, sure,” Jeongin tells him once he has changed. “I’ll help if I can.”

Minho nods slowly and thinks for a bit too long for comfort until Jeongin is starting to maybe think he’s said something wrong. Then he opens and closes his mouth several times and then scoots impossibly closer to Jeongin on the seat, the imaginary line that divided them in the first place long blurred by whatever intentions Minho has.

“I thought I was wrong before but now I am certain.” Minho clears his throat and leans in closer to Jeongin, as his voice turns into a whisper. “do you believe in uh, bad karma? like, do you think you could have wronged someone who’s no longer… alive?”

Jeongin swallows to avoid laughing. 

The irony of it all. Not only ghosts do not like him because he’s well, not alive nor dead, but also because he refuses to help them altogether. However, why is Minho asking something like this? His first thought is _ah, he’s heard the rumors,_ but something pushes him to ask.

“Why are you asking me that?”, he says, voice thin, like a thread waiting to snap.

“I know this is gonna sound unbelievable,” Minho whispers with caution like Jeongin is a scared little animal that threatens to run away at the smallest sound. “But there’s a _very_ angry ghost following you since earlier, and I _need_ you to come with me before they turn into a vindictive one.”

Instantly, the pressure on the back of his neck comes back at full force, and Jeongin frowns at the pain. He doesn’t reply, but he’s sure his eyes won’t let him lie. The older looks at his hair and Jeongin is confused for a second before Minho speaks again.

“You can see them, can’t you?” He says, eyebrows slightly pinched, voice tinged with worry. “Did Jisung charm these for you?”

Jeongin’s hand flies to his glasses, a quiet admission to what Minho just said. The back of his neck feels like it’s burning and freezing at the same time and Jeongin wonders what on earth this stupid ghost is doing to him. His breath becomes shallow and he closes his eyes, overwhelmed once again at the thought of being at the mercy of yet another spirit. His hands get clammy and fear settles on his stomach once more. He tries telling himself the spirit cannot hurt him, but the pain increases, and so does the difficulty of stringing coherent thoughts. In some little part of his mind, he knows he’s alive, sort of, and that whatever is doing this to him isn’t serious. They exist in different spaces, and they cannot inflict significant damage on him. They are just messing with him so he will cede and help after the emotional torment they’re putting him through.

Jeongin presses the closest stop button and in the next stop he walks towards the exit of the bus, with Minho on tow, who gives his thanks to the driver in their stead but Jeongin barely registers, too into his own head to think about anything else that how cold it is.

He doesn’t make it too far before his knees buckle and his hands slam against the concrete. His head is down but when he looks up he can distinguish the park near his apartment and next, honey eyes in his field of vision. Minho talks to him and Jeongin _listens_. He isn’t sure how he does it but Jeongin hears his every word, asking him to calm down, telling him that he’s ok and that he won’t be hurt while he’s there. 

Slowly but steadily, the pressure recedes and Jeongin feels like he’s breathing again. He feels the concrete, rough under his palms and he realizes the rain has stopped. It smells like strawberry milk and wet pavement. Minho is at a safe distance from him and he’s not touching Jeongin but he’s still singing small reassuring words to him. Jeongin isn’t sure what takes over him next. Maybe it’s the adrenaline high he’s on or the fact that even in his spurt, Minho followed and brought his big canvas along. His neck still burns slightly but Minho’s presence feels like a life-line, _safe_ and before he loses courage, Jeongin looks him in the eyes before speaking.

“Alright,” he says, breathless, aware that he’s agreeing to follow a spirit blindly, that he’s following Minho blindfolded because there is no way he’s taking his glasses off. “I’ll go with you”. 


End file.
